Call Me Whister
by yorozuyagaren
Summary: How Whistler came to Brooklyn and met Spot. I got the idea from A Quarter A Tale by TwoBits. Thanks, TwoBits!
1. Chapter 1

Call Me Whistler

* * *

The rain was coming down in a slow, steady drizzle, soaking the boy who sat on the front step of a store somewhere in lower Manhattan. He played over the day's events in his mind as he nursed the bruises on his face, trying to figure out some way out of his sudden homelessness. The day had started out fairly normally, but somewhere along the way it had gone terribly wrong…

_"Out, I say!" cried the landlord. "I won't have thieves living in my building, especially when they steal from me!"_

_"All I stole was potatoes!" the boy shouted back, slipping on the piles upon piles of tubers that crowded the small tenement room. "And it's not like you couldn't afford a couple potatoes, anyway!"_

_The landlord backhanded the boy against the wall. "OUT!" he shouted again. "And if I ever see you around here again, I'll have you arrested!"_

Not that being arrested was anything new to the boy who sat on the step, thinking hard and wringing the extra water out of his long red hair from time to time. He'd been in and out of the Refuge several times, and was not in the mood for a return trip.

"Nuthin' for it but to get movin'," he sighed to himself, plopping a bright green cap on his head and carefully tucking his hair up under it. As much as he hated being mistaken for a girl, he hated haircuts more. His last one had been on his most recent visit to the Refuge, over a year before.

"The question is: where to go where ol' Snyder can't find me."

Suddenly he remembered overhearing a conversation about Brooklyn.

"Well, why not."

* * *

Spot Conlon looked out over his domain. Or rather, what he could see of his domain. Technically, all of Brooklyn was his domain, but at that moment all he could see was the docks, and a few of his newsies who had finished selling early and were taking a swim in the cold Hudson River. The King of Brooklyn smiled. He'd had a good selling day, and now he was perched on his newly built tower made of packing crates, relaxing and enjoying the view. 

Until the Disturbance, at least.

The Disturbance took the form of six newsies coming before Spot's tower, dragging a seventh boy who was taking every opportunity to fight back, cursing like a sailor when one of his captors hit him in the stomach, forcing him to double over.

"You'll show the proper respect for Spot Conlon, the King of Brooklyn," the leader of the little group said.

"Like hell I will," spat the captive. "I'll soak the bastard if I get my hands on 'im, just like I'll soak every last one o' you!"

Spot raised an eyebrow. The captive was prompty punched in the stomach.

"Alright, who the hell is he, and why'd you bring him here?" Spot asked the leader of the captors.

"He was sellin' in our territory, and he sure ain't from Brooklyn," the boy explained. Suddenly the captive—taking advantage of everyone's distraction—squirmed out of his captors' collective grip and rolled away from them, losing his cap in the process. Long red hair cascaded down his back as he got to his feet.

"A _girl?_" Spot asked incredulously. No boy would have hair that long, right? "Grab her!"

The six boys immediately took off, overtaking the redhead and pummeling the small person to the ground.

"I am not! Geddoffame!" The captors didn't comply, holding their prisoner fast while Spot groped at his/her chest. He was hit squarely in the eye with a glob of spit. Swearing, he punched the prisoner in the face, then ripped off the clay pendant that hung on a leather cord around the prisoner's neck.

"He's a boy, either that 'r a real skinny girl. Chuck him in the river," he said carelessly, climbing back up the ladder to his perch to examine the pendant. The six complied, dragging the redhead over to the edge of the pier and giving the oddly compliant prisoner a shove. All eyes watched as the bubbles slowly stopped.

"Problem solved," Spot said. "Now get back to sellin', all o' yous."

* * *

Next morning, the redheaded boy was back, carrying the banner on someone else's corner. He'd even gotten his hat back during the night. Once again, Spot's followers brought him before the tower. 

"So, y'know how to swim good," the King of Brooklyn said, looking over the boy's still-damp clothing. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Someone you should look over your shoulder for," was the boy's reply.

* * *

Early the next morning, Spot awoke with a knife under his chin. Looking up, he discovered the redheaded kid with an unreadable expression on his face and a strange glint in his greeny-grey eyes. 

"Get up, an' get dressed," he said. "We got a score to settle."

Considering his position, Spot did as he was asked, keeping an eye on the knife as the redheaded boy tossed it casually from hand to hand. Something told him that the boy could do more than just stab people with the small blade. The second Spot had pulled his suspenders on, the boy grabbed him by the arm and all but dragged him outside, around a few corners, and into an empty alleyway.

"You've got all your friends hangin' out near this alley, don't you?" Spot asked. "Ready to kill me."

"Nope, just me," the boy replied. "But I'll be more than enough. You took a few things from me, an' I aim to get 'em back."

Spot remembered the necklace. "What, you mean this piece a junk?" he said, pulling it out of his pocket. "I shoulda thrown it in after you."

"Bastard!" the boy shouted. Spot found himself on the ground, clutching his stomach. He hadn't even seen the kid move. No flicker of thought in his eye right before, no bunching of muscles.

"Get up." Spot staggered to his feet, only to be punched back down. The boy ordered him up again. Spot obeyed, and was punched down once more. This time, though, he couldn't get back up. The redheaded boy searched through Spot's pockets until he found his necklace, stuffed it into his own pocket, and pulled Spot to his feet. He then half-carried the other boy over to the docks, then dumped him into the river.

Spot hit the water with a splash and sank, unable to swim in his condition. The boy standing above realized this, and panicked. He hadn't meant to kill his tormentor, just pay him back for the blows and indignity, not to mention the theft of the necklace. Not even taking his shoes, he dove into the water, blindly searching with his fingers for a warm body, a bit of cloth or hair, anything that would imply that Spot wasn't dead at the bottom of the Hudson. Finally his hands felt a brush of hair, and he grabbed at it, dragging whatever was attached back up to the surface. It was Spot, and he wasn't breathing. The boy carried him up the ladder and onto the pier, then pumped the other's chest a few times, breathing a sigh of relief when Spot coughed a few times, then spit out a small fountain of water.

"What the hell--" he said once he'd gotten his breath back. "Ya beat me up, try to kill me, then you save my life?"

"We're even now," the redheaded boy replied. He reached out a hand to help Spot to his feet, but had it slapped away.

"You're a nutjob."

"So I been told." Then the boy walked away, whistling.

* * *

By the time Spot got back to the lodging house, the sun was fully up and his newsies had already gone to get their papers. The King of Brooklyn found himself running to the newspaper office, hoping that they hadn't sold out yet. 

They hadn't. Spot, never one to pray, found himself thanking the Lord that he was just in time. Then he heard someone whistling. It was a simple tune, repetitious and catchy, and Spot found himself humming along in his head. After two more repetitions, however, it got annoying.

"Hey whistler! Shut up!" he yelled. The whistling continued. Spot looked around, trying to find the source of the song. There, near the gate, was the redheaded boy who had dumped him in the river and then pulled him out again. Standing there, lips pursed, whistling loud and clear.

Spot went over to him, carrying a stack of papers. "Stop whistling or I shove these down your throat," he threatened. The boy stopped whistling and grinned. "Ya never said what your name was."

"Call me Whistler." 


	2. Chapter 2

Yep, Call Me Whistler is now a chaptered story! All hail the Garen, for he reigns supreme over life and death for his characters, whether they're actually his or just borrowed.

Eh, ignore me. I'm not really worth the trouble. Just to clear up any confusion, this story takes place about a year before the strike.

* * *

Chapter 2 

The new boy, who seemingly refered to himself as Whistler, never showed up at the lodging house that night. Spot didn't worry—the boy could obviously look after himself after all, but he did wonder. He resolved to go ask Jack if he knew the kid. Jack knew everybody, just about.

The next morning, directly after getting his papers, Spot set out across the bridge to Manhattan. He was on the bridge itself, right below one of the towers when the sound of someone singing intruded on his thoughts.

"_O gu sunndach mi air m' astar,  
Falbh gu siubhlach le bheag airtneul,  
Do a chomhrag ri Bonaparte,  
'S e bha bagairt air Righ Deors'._"

He glanced around. The sun was barely up and there was no one in sight. He shook his head in disgust and went on.

"_Illean chridheil, bitheamaid sunndach,  
Seasaibh onoir ur duthcha,  
Fhad's a mhaireas luaidh is fudar,  
De rud chuireadh curam oirnn?_"

The words were completely unfamiliar, but he recalled hearing the tune somewhere. Something moving above him caught Spot's eye right before someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was the new boy.

"Mornin' to ya," the boy said with a grin. "A bit early to be goin' over to 'Hattan, ennit? Bet the 'Hattan boys won't like you sellin' in their territory."

"Outta my way, fool," Spot snapped, trying to get around the boy.

"I got a name, y'know, an' it en't 'Fool'," the boy said.

"Ya never said what your stupid name was, you jus' said to call ya 'Whistler'."

The boy grinned again. "Right, because I don't want anyone knowin' my real name. Therefore, my name is Whistler. For now, at least."

Spot muttered something highly uncomplementary and tried to shove past. Whistler allowed him, but followed a bit behind. They were on the Manhattan side of the bridge when Spot got tired of it.

"Will you quit followin' me?" he said. "Don't you have someplace to be?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I wanna see where you're goin'."

"None of your business."

"I saved your life, y'know."

"Only because y' almost killed me. Ya said yourself that we're even."

"True," Whistler was forced to admit. "I'll go sell me papes, an' you can go to 'Hattan and get your face punched in. Your _Majesty_." Satisfied, the redhead turned on the heel of his shabby brown boot and marched back to Brooklyn.

"Weirdo," Spot muttered.

* * *

Jack Kelly, recently of Refuge-escaping fame, was the only-seldom-disputed leader of the Manhattan newsies. Jack—or Cowboy, as he was called by his subordinants— may not have been as powerful as the King of Brooklyn, but he had his group of friends who he turned to for back-up and cigarettes, the younger of whom hero-worshipped him for his daring stories about escaping from the Refuge and other places. All in all, he was content. 

Until Spot Conlon had shown up.

It had been a little over a year ago, on one of his occasional trips over the bridge, that Jack had first met the young King of Brooklyn. Jack had thought that he'd be meeting with the former king of Brooklyn, a friend of his by the name of Flip, and was quite surprised to find a small, skinny twelve-year-old in the place of his friend. Neither boy had been much impressed with the other, Jack mentally labeling the new king as a pipsqueak, and Spot dismissing the Cowboy as a bragging moron, albeit one who had connections.

So it was with some unpleasantness that Jack looked upon the small form before him.

"An' what brings His Majesty to my humble borough," Jack asked.

"I need information, Jacky-boy," Spot half-snarled. "I got a new kid, calls himself Whistler. Short an' skinny, with long red hair like a girl and sorta greenish eyes. Know anythin' about him?"

Jack chewed on the end of his unlit cigarette. He shook his head. "Nope, not ringin' any bells," he said. "But maybe Medda knows somethin'."

Spot nodded. He strolled over to Irving Hall, selling a few papers along the way. Medda Larkson was in the middle of a performance, so Spot let himself in the back door and sat down to wait. He didn't have to wait long before Medda herself came down the steps from the stage.

"And who are you?" she asked, somewhat upset.

"I'm a friend a' Jack's," Spot lied. "I need information on a new kid that showed up in my territory. He calls himself Whistler, he's short and skinny with red hair, and he sings a lot."

Medda thought for a moment. "I think I know who you're talking about," she said. "Is his hair long?" Spot nodded. "Yes, I know him. By sight, at least. And I heard someone refer to him as 'Connolly' a few times. I think that's his surname. Is that all?"

"Do you know anything else? He's kinda been buggin' me."

"Well, he likes showgirls. I can't tell you how many times I've had to chase him out of the dressing rooms. A bit of a rogue, you might say, but always polite his own funny little way. He used to come regular, even if it was just to bother my girls, but I haven't seen him in a few days."

"Thanks a bunch, Medda," Spot said. He now knew the boy's surname, and that he was from Manhattan. Funny that Jack hadn't known him.

Or hadn't said he'd known him. Frankly, Spot was more inclined to trust Medda than Jack.

"And that Whistler kid not at all," he muttered to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

And another chaptered story threatens to take over my already pathetic life… It was waiting to happen, I swear.

* * *

Chapter 3 

After coming to the conclusion that Jack had lied to him and running himself ragged looking for information, Spot was still no closer to finding out where Whistler lived, or what his real name was past the surname Connolly.

Standing near his tower, Spot cursed to himself as the object of his frustrations appeared.

"I hear you're lookin' for information," Whistler said. "Did it ever occur to ya to jus' ask?"

Spot was dumbfounded. Of course he'd thought about it, but you don't just walk up to someone you don't know and start asking them things. No one in their right mind would answer questions like that. But no one ever said that Whistler was in his right mind…

"Where are ya livin'? Ya didn' show up at the lodgin' house last night."

"Didn't think I was welcome," Whistler replied, skirting the question. "Considerin' what happened when I first showed up in Brooklyn, I didn' wanna get meself killed jus' for a bed."

"There's no fightin' allowed in the lodgin' house. Y'er a newsie, y'should know that."

"Never stayed in a lodgin' house. Had me own place back in 'Hattan."

His own place? Spot had never heard of a newsie with their own home, unless they lived with a family.

"Your parents' place?" Spot asked.

"Nah, my place," Whistler said, emphasizing the "my". He was clearly proud of the fact that he had had enough income to afford rent, and rightly so. "Don't remember m'parents."

Spot nodded slowly. "So if y'had y'er own place in 'Hattan, why'd ya come to Brooklyn?"

"Got evicted," Whistler said with a shrug.

Before Spot could ask why the other boy had been evicted, Knicknack came running up.

"Deuce—in Brooklyn—got a bunch of his thugs—" the boy panted.

"Call everybody back to the lodgin' house," Spot ordered. "I don't want nobody on the street, even if they ain't done sellin'. I'll take care a' this myself."

Knicknack's eyes widened. "But he'll cream ya, Spot! He's seventeen!"

"I'm older than him," Whistler put in.

"No y'not," Spot said.

Whistler grinned. "Yah, I am."

Knicknack shifted uneasily from foot to foot as the argument commenced. Finally he'd had enough. "Spot, cut it out, we gotta be serious 'bout this!" he said.

Spot swore. "Knicknack, go 'round an' tell all the guys to get back to the lodgin' house. Take this loser with you," he said, motioning to Whistler. Whistler raised an eyebrow, but went off with Knicknack.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Spot ran into Whistler. 

"Y'er supposed ta be with Knicknack, back at the lodgin' house," he snapped. "What the hell do ya think y'er doin'?"

"Nuthin', jus' thought you might like to know that they got Skipper."

"Sonnova—I'll kill him, I swear I will—"

Whistler shook his head, grabbing Spot's arm. "Y'er not doin' anythin' without me. That guy's crazy, you'll never get rid of 'im alone."

"An' why should I trust you? For all I know, you could be on his side!"

"Never," Whistler said. "I saw him pull a knife on someone half his size, _with_ three to one odds in his favour. He plays dirty. I may be crazy, but I'm fair."

Spot nodded slowly. Much as he hated to admit it, he hadn't particularly been looking forward to taking on Deuce by himself.

"You distract 'im," the King of Brooklyn decreed. "I'll take 'im down." Whistler shrugged, and the two went off in the direction Whistler had come from.


End file.
